Death May Come Invisible
by JACmRob
Summary: Ed dreams of Baschool. A darker re-imagining of the events surrounding the Crimson Alchemist and Briggs, and what Ed will do to protect Winry. Warnings for non-con.


A/N: A darker take on the events with Kimblee. Rating is for language, sexual content, gore, non-con. I told you it was dark! Takes place in the missing months after Briggs and after the Promised Day, some spoilers for the end of the manga/brotherhood. The title comes from a Bright Eyes song, "No One Would Riot for Less," which can be thought of as a companion to the piece.

Disclaimer: I own nothing

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

Ed dreams of Baschool. Dreams of the smell of that place, even in the stinging cold—sharp and metallic, like the Flame Alchemist's gloves after a good snap. Dreams of Kimblee's eyes dancing, only now they are blood red like two glittering Philosopher's stones. And the ground under him suddenly gutted, dirt and wood and metal belching outwards, and the void beneath his feet as he falls.

Ed dreams of falling. Only in the dream he falls forever, and he falls through white nothingness. Greedy black hands claw at him, like when they come bursting from the Gate, only there is no Gate, there is only cold dirt and a spire of metal. A spire of metal emerging right from his gut.

He dreams of a taste in his mouth, metallic like blood, and also bitter and salty like semen. Looking down at that bar in horror, realizing it's running right through him, realizing he's dead. The pain doesn't even register, just the fact that he is actually, truly fucked. And Kimblee's twisted, mocking eyes. A face that's laughing without making a sound.

_I knew you were a good dog. A bit of persuasion and you follow orders _so_ well. Down. Kneel. Open up. Good boy._

Ed wakes in a cold sweat. The air is warm, humid. He's not in Baschool. He's not in the north. He's not dead. He rolls over and realizes he's in a bed. The cheap inn they risked spending the night at, so far in the middle of nowhere that there can't _possibly_ be someone here who'd recognize Ed. A gamble for the chance to sleep with real pillows and a sink. Ed's a fugitive after all.

From across the room, Darius lets out a hefty snore. _Still can't get a good night's sleep though_, Ed grumbles to himself. He pushes his sweaty bangs out of his face and closes his eyes again, willing himself not to see Kimblee, or Hoenheim's retreating shoulders, or Al splintered in pieces, or Winry dead, or that _thing_ they created—

_One night of real rest, is that too much to ask?_

The mattress creaks as Ed rolls onto his back. His side aches. He pinches the bridge of his nose and practices breathing slowly, calmly, evenly, the way Teacher taught him and Al so long ago.

**2.**

"How's that hole in your side, kid?"

Ed just grunts. It's been especially painful today, maybe because the sky is covered by thick grey clouds threatening rain. All his alchemical wounds hurt more in bad weather. A constant penance every time the earth decides to nourish itself.

"You sure we should be getting this close to Central?"

Ed gazes out on the pastiche of fields and buildings. The city juts up in the distance, a grey smudge, with the spires of the Furor's fortress just visible.

"I want to keep an eye on things."

For the millionth time he thinks of Al and Winry, wonders where they are, if they got out safe. Winry especially. Al can take care of himself, but Winry— _She could be under the Furer's fingers again. Or Kimblee's. _He's missing, so they can't use her as his leash, but he's sure the military knows he's checking up on them. If they hurt her, they'll make sure he sees it. Make sure he comes running.

It's an obvious trap, but Ed doesn't care. If they have her, he'll walk right into their arms in exchange.

_Such a pretty girl. Lucky me, to have her under my thumb. _In his head, Ed hears Kimblee's icy chuckle. _You be a good, obedient dog, or I might just wander into the wrong room one night… _

Ed feels his hands clench into fists. _Better me than her_. That bastard. If Ed ever sees him again—

The first few raindrops fall heavy on Ed's face.

"You're gonna get yourself killed, kid."

Ed pulls his jacket tighter as the sky splits open. "Let's go."

**3.**

Ed dreams of Kimblee. Dreams of those spidery fingers pushing through his hair. His eyes are red again; they stare savagely down at Ed.

_She's such a pretty girl. I don't know how she manages up here, with all these men, all these soldiers, starving for a warm body or a pretty mouth…_

Ed dreams of those fingers pushing him down to his knees, cupping his jaw, pressing down hard enough to bruise. Dreams of his face being pushed into the bulge of Kimblee's trousers, hard and hot and eager. His hands tied behind his back, helpless. Kimblee unzipping his trousers, forcing his length into Ed's mouth.

_You're almost as pretty. Such soft hair. On your knees like this you almost look like a woman. _

In his dream, Ed bites down hard, but he can't escape the pressure of Kimblee's cock in his throat. The fingers are gripping his neck, squeezing, and Ed feels tears in his eyes as he gags. He can't breathe.

_Down. Kneel. Good boy._

When Ed jolts awake, the lurch of disgust—the fury—is too much. He bolts from the tent to the edge of their camp and leans against a tree and heaves. The acrid taste of bile burns in his mouth, but it's strong enough to make him forget the other taste. He gags until there's nothing left in his stomach and he's shivering and ashamed.

"Are you alright, Edward?"

It's only then that he realizes he isn't alone in his wakefulness. Hoenheim is sitting pensively by the embers of the fire. Even in the dark, his eyes are piercing, and Ed scowls and looks away.

"I'm fine." He wishes he could stop shaking.

"A nightmare?"

"Shut it, I said I'm fine!"

Despite the harshness of his words, Hoenheim's face doesn't harden, and Ed wishes it would. Wishes the guy wouldn't act so damn nice and polite. Ed's got more than enough reason to hate him, but can't he just take the bait? _You don't get to act_ fatherly_ to me anymore, you haven't earned it. You don't deserve it. _

The anger is still burning up inside him. If he ever sees Kimblee again, there'll be no mercy. He wants to feel his automail blade stabbing through the man's gut, coming out the other side. The scar tissue on his stomach throbs. It scares him, this dangerous fury, and he hates Kimblee more for making him feel it.

Hoenheim is still staring at him, and Ed hates the concern on his face too. He jabs a finger at the man he's supposed to call father.

"You can quit trying to cozy up to me. You already quit being a father when you walked out. You don't know half the hell Al and I have been through since then! The only reason I'm putting up with you is because I've got unfinished business back in Central! After that you can fuck off again, I don't care!"

But Hoenheim doesn't flinch. He's as calm as ever and the worry is still ripe in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Edward," he says instead, "for everything that's happened to you. I'm sorry the part I caused."

The bitter victory doesn't make Ed feel any better; his mouth tastes like bile and there's an uncomfortable lump in his throat.

"Fuck you."

He staggers back to his tent, collapsing on the bedding. He forces himself to think of Winry, how she might have been in his position instead. At least he spared her that hell. His side aches, it aches, it sears with pain, as fresh as the moment Darius pulled that rod out of him.

The wind flaps against the folds of the tent and Ed thinks of the storm that's coming, the Promised Day. His stomach clenches. At least he's not dead yet.

**4.**

She straddles his lap, kissing his neck, and this time Ed isn't dreaming. Ed runs his hands over her breasts, down her stomach, across her hips, marveling at how soft she is. His arousal is apparent as she presses her body into his.

"Need you, Win."

He captures her mouth back in his and she rocks against him. He murmurs her name between kisses. She's sliding down his body now, leaving him teetering at the edge of the bed, and she's kneeling between his legs. Her eyes are wide and lustful as he reaches down to tweak her nipple, and she takes the head of his cock into her mouth. She's swallowing his whole length now, and it feels so damn good that he throws his head back, letting out a hissing breath.

_Fuck you, Kimblee_, he thinks, threading his fingers—both flesh—through her yellow hair. _You lost. I won. _

She crawls up from his cock and he flips her onto the bed, thrusting inside her in a single stroke. She's so wet and warm and god he just _loves_ the feeling of being so close to her, the most precious thing in the world. When he comes, he forgets everything but his body and hers, together as one.

After, she curls up against his chest, lazy fingers running over his skin. They stop at the spidery scar on his stomach, tracing the white lines that splay outward like veins. He's told her how he got it, unwillingly; he had to bear the tears in her eyes when she saw the matching scar on his back. She still shivers every time she touches it.

Ed wraps his arms tight around her, tugging her hands off the scar, tucking her beneath his chin.

"I can't believe it's really over," she mumbles into his neck.

"Yeah. It's over."

When he falls asleep, he doesn't dream of Baschool.

* * *

><p>AN: just a little thing that came to my head. I've read a few Kimblee non-con things and always wished the abuse was a little more developed. He's such a sadistic character, very fun to work with. As always, reviews make my world light up.

-JR


End file.
